


sick over you

by winchesters



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Modern AU, Sick Fic, dumb french hunks, flatmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 14:16:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1133640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winchesters/pseuds/winchesters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is sick. Combeferre stays home to take care of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sick over you

**Author's Note:**

> On Friday I got a bad case of food poisoning (yeah, fuck you Taco Bell crunchwrap supreme that I didn't stop eating even after I noticed the lettuce and tomatoes tasted funny) and was inspired to write this dumb lil thing.

Enjolras doesn't have time to get sick. He can't possibly miss his Policy and Decision-Making class today (they're having a socratic seminar, which means a hefty participation grade and a chance to show off for the professor) and then he has to print out flyers for next week's rally outside the state capitol and then there's a meeting at the Musain...  
"Dude, are you okay?" Combeferre drifts into the kitchenette as Enjolras lets his head drop to the table, resting his forehead against the cool–and slightly sticky–wood. 

"Euugh," he manages, suddenly aware of how his sweaty t-shirt is sticking to his back. 

"You look sick," Combeferre says, setting his coffee mug down on the counter. "Let me feel your forehead." 

The hand he lays against his flatmate's forehead is cool and light, the practiced ease of a medical student and the concern of a worried parent. Enjolras pulls away from his boyfriend's touch.

"You're burning up!" Combeferre exclaims, peering into Enjolras' eyes with a sudden interest. Enjolras knows that look, Joly adopts the same fascinated expression whenever any of the Amis display any symptoms of malady, no matter how insignificant. 

"I'm not five, 'Ferre," he snarks, carding a hand through his tangled hair and shoving his laptop into his bag in an act of defiance. "I can take care of myself." 

"You should go to bed," Combeferre tells him. "You definitely have a fever; you're probably coming down with the flu." 

Enjolras scoffs.

"I don't have time to be sick." 

He attempts to rise from the table and makes it a few staggering steps before dizziness overwhelms him and he nearly collapses into Combeferre's arms. 

"That's it," says Combeferre, manhandling him onto the couch. Enjolras allows himself to be dumped onto the worn cushions and doesn't have the energy to protest when Combeferre tucks a blanket under his chin. "Don't even think about trying to get up." 

Enjolras groans (he'll never tell Combeferre that he's enjoying this) and closes his eyes and when he opens them Combeferre is standing over him with a mug of tea and a thermometer. He makes Enjolras hold the thermometer under his tongue for two minutes (he holds the end and keeps checking his watch) and then tuts and says,

"101. I'm shocked you've made it this far." He presses the tea into Enjolras' hands. "And I'm staying home with you today." 

"What!?" Enjolras rasps (god, is he losing his voice too?). Combeferre sighs and shakes his head.

"I need to monitor your fever. If it gets over 102, I'm taking you to the hospital. 101 is pretty high anyway, I'd feel better if I were around to take care of you." 

Enjolras attempts a scoff, which quickly turns into a hoarse cough. He doubles over, hacking away, and Combeferre gently rubs his back until the fit subsides. 

"See?" He says, as Enjolras sags weakly back onto the couch. "It's much nicer to have someone take care of you when you're sick." 

Enjolras grasps Combeferre's hand, his own fingers limp. He's aware of how sweaty he is, and suddenly realizes that maybe he shouldn't be touching Combeferre because what if he's contagious?

"You'll miss your lecture." 

Combeferre reaches over and brushes away the curls that are sticking to Enjolras' clammy forehead.

"Joly can give me his notes." 

He moves so that he's curled up next to Enjolras, half-under the fleece blanket that Enjolras is pretty sure used to belong to Grantaire because who else would own a Harry Potter-themed blanket? 

"'Ferre," Enjolras protests weakly, "you'll get sick too." 

Combeferre slides his arm around Enjolras' shoulders and gently strokes his arm. Then he drops a kiss to Enjolras' tousled curls. 

"We've been sharing drinks and spoons for days and I'm pretty sure I accidentally used your toothbrush last night so I'm bound to get it sooner or later." 

Combeferre waits until Enjolras rests his head on his chest, cuddling into the other boy's warmth, before continuing. 

"I'd just rather get it like this."


End file.
